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“Fucking hell.” He pulled back and rested his forehead against mine as we heaved for breath. “As much as I want to fuck you into this couch, I’m not giving Ian or the staff an impromptu show.”
My brain fired back online, and horror at my actions slammed into me. What the hell was I doing? He studied me briefly, frowning before climbing off me. I watched him rearrange the impressive tent in his trousers, and the residual heat licked through me. When was the last time I had an orgasm with someone other than my vibrator? When had I last wanted sex with someone instead of exchanging my body for something? Never.
I sat up and pulled my top down where it had ridden up. I cleared my throat, embarrassment flaring as I glanced over to the corner where the ginger man, presumably Ian, was standing, looking in the other direction. How often did he have to turn a blind eye when his boss was fucking someone? That thought left an ugly feeling inside me, and I scowled.
“What’s that look for?”
“Just wondering if you pay your men enough to ignore you fucking your latest plaything.”
“I’m going to let that comment slide because jealousy looks good on you.” He grinned. “But for your information, I’ve never fucked a woman in front of my men.”
He led me back to the reset table. Mortifyingly, Tina must have had a front-row seat to my loss of dignity on the couch.
“I’ll get rid of it.” Sean grabbed the jewellery box.
“No,” I said, reaching out. “It’s beautiful. Just don’t call me that.”
“Done.” He lifted the necklace from the box and indicated that I should turn.
I lifted my hair, and he slid the chain around my neck. The cool metal of the hummingbird settled against my skin. I closed my eyes again against the conflicting emotions warring inside me and prayed I wouldn’t end up like my mamá.
To cover my confused feelings, I guzzled the champagne, which was incredibly easy to drink. When the food arrived, I was pleasantly tipsy and feeling much better. We ate a variety of things, and more champagne arrived. Sean’s favourites were the lamb stew and boxty, a type of potato pancake.
“Trixie has learnt how to make a good boxty, but nothing beats Paddy’s ones.” Sean shovelled the last one into his mouth.
We’d both destroyed the food.
“Whose Trixie?” I asked.
“My housekeeper.”
A giggle slipped out, and I slapped a hand over my mouth. I felt fuzzy.
“What is so funny?” he asked, smiling as he loosened his suit jacket.
“You have a housekeeper called Trixie.”
“Trixie would be upset at you laughing at her name.”
I stilled. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I’m pulling your leg.” He leaned forward towards me. “She wouldn’t be offended. She’d tell you to fuck off.”
“I’d imagine she’d need to be a strong woman to keep your house in line.”
His gaze intensified. “That she would.”
It no longer felt like we were talking about his housekeeper, and I glanced away.
“Do you want dessert?”
“I couldn’t eat another mouthful,” I said, patting my food baby, feeling contented.
Everything felt better with a full stomach, or maybe it was the champagne.
He straightened and pulled his wallet out, dumping a wad of money on the table.
“Are you always a big tipper then?”
